


Still Fighting for Peace

by JustAGirl24



Series: Art Therapy [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arguing, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bang City, Caught in the Act, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Morning After, Therapy, art therapy, non-graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things with Hoat come to a head. Jaime and Brienne take their relationship to the next level. Brienne wonders what Jaime is looking for. Catelyn Stark visits Tarth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Be Clear

**Author's Note:**

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> justme made me this beautiful banner! Thank you for sharing your talent with me!

Jaime looks at the clock—10:53 a.m. He sits at the small desk in his room, the windows open so that a cool breeze sweeps through his room. There is the same lovely view that still makes him catch his breath, the golden sand and sapphire blue waters, the white gulls soaring through the air.  It seems wrong that a part of the world is beautiful when he spent so much time in the dark. He pulls his eyes from the window and opens his laptop with only a little difficulty, bracing his forearm against the keyboard as he adjusts the screen, then the little webcam that perches on the top edge.

As if on cue, a musical tone sounds through the air, and Jaime clicks on the flashing icon to answer Tyrion’s incoming V-Raven. His brother’s face appears, his eyes crinkling at the corners, one green and one black. A pained-looking smile settles stiffly on his face. And while Tyrion’s expression is always somewhat mournful, Jaime feels something sink in the vicinity of his stomach.

“Everything all right?” he asks Tyrion, watching his younger brother’s gaze shift back and forth, refusing to settle. He rubs at the long stubble on his jaw with short, broad fingers, and Jaime notices how tired his little brother looks.

Tyrion lets out a heavy sigh. “Words usually don’t fail me,” he says slowly, deliberately, his hand dropping from his face. Jaime’s stomach sinks further as a touch of pity enters his brother’s gaze. “Be grateful you’re on a remote island, dear brother.” Tyrion gives a half-hearted smirk. “At least you get to avoid some of the rabid gossip. Father and I have been doing extensive damage control over the last several days.”

Frustration rises in Jaime at Tyrion’s vagueness. His mind spins through a dozen different scenarios, each worse than the last, and Jaime wishes his brother would just spit it out. “What’s happened?” He wonders if he’ll need to come home, cut his time on Tarth short, and dreads the thought of it.

“Cersei,” says Tyrion solemnly.

 _Cersei._ He’s hardly thought of her in days, maybe even weeks. Fear grips him all the same. “What?”

“It appears that our sweet sister was photographed at a nightclub in a…compromising position with that new Myrish model, Taena Merryweather. And she recently made a rather—shall we say indiscreet?—video with one of the Kettleblack brothers. Father’s paying through the nose to keep that one quiet, and you know how he feels about blackmail.”

The pity in Tyrion’s eyes makes sense now, but Jaime is surprised at how little he feels over the news—numb more than anything. “Is that all? Or more?”

Tyrion snorts. “From the sheer number of people offering to keep quiet for a few thousand dragons, she’s been fucking everyone from Taena to Kettleblack to godsdamned Moon Boy for the past couple decades.”

With a jolt, the numbness is replaced by anger as Tyrion’s words begin to sink in. Jaime struggles to keep a straight face, years of keeping the true nature of his relationship with Cersei coming to the forefront. Even with Tyrion, who has known for more years than Jaime would like to acknowledge.

“I’m sorry, Jaime.” Tyrion’s voice is unusually kind, gentle even, and that is something Jaime cannot handle.

He knows it’s not fair, but he wants to punish his brother anyway. Jaime slams his laptop shut, the webcam skittering to the side. One of the plastic hinges hangs at an awkward angle. His fingers clench around the edge, sweeping the laptop from the desk in one swift move. The wanton destruction is not at all as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

Jaime sighs, bracing his elbows against the wood veneer, letting his head fall into his hand and stump. Minutes pass as his anger slowly ebbs. Finally he raises his head and glances at the clock. It’s after noon. Slowly, deliberately, he picks up his laptop from the corner it landed in and places it on the desk. He leaves the room without a backward glance.

It’s time to see Brienne.

* * *

It’s frustrating, trying to roll the clay into long, thin ropes with only one hand, and Jaime is still aggravated from his conversation with Tyrion earlier that morning. He lets loose a low growl and shakes out his hand, ignoring the gritty feeling of the cement-gray clay drying on his hands, under his fingernails. He briefly considers praying to the Smith, knowing how difficult it will be to clean later.

He starts slowly winding the ropes of clay into a spiral, using the needle to make score marks as he goes, and he has to admit that Brienne was right—after two weeks of working with the clay, he has noticed more strength and dexterity in his fingers. Even Jon Snow had remarked on how much steadier Jaime’s hand was while he’d worked on legibly signing his name at occupational therapy two days ago.

Jaime is dipping his fingers in the little dish of water at his elbow, dabbing them on the clay to smooth the edges of his bowl, when someone comes to stand at his elbow. _Brienne._ He can smell the fresh scent of her shampoo, and underneath that, a hint of turpentine.

“Wench,” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear, and she huffs out a breathy chuckle.

“Jaime,” she greets him. He can hear the smile in her voice. “How’s it going?” Brienne braces her hand on the table next to him, leaning in to take a closer look. She is distracted, inspecting the lopsided bowl he’s managed, and Jaime finds all his agitation from that morning disappearing. He can’t take his eyes away from the blue veins running over the underside of her wrist, the milk-pale skin there. Her comments fade into the background as his eyes are drawn to the fine blonde hairs on the back of her wrist, the smooth skin that is a shade darker and covered in freckles. He wonders how many afternoons it would take to count them all, just the ones on her arm, lazy hours cocooned in cotton sheets, bathed in warm, golden sunshine. He doesn’t even realize it when he reaches out with one finger to trace those blue veins under the delicate skin of her wrist, leaving a trail of thin, gritty slurry behind. He does notice when her words stutter then stop. He raises his head, meeting her stunned gaze. Her pupils are blown, her freckled cheeks flushed a ruddy hue, her large, square teeth sinking into her thick lower lip.

“Brienne,” Jaime murmurs. He feels her long, calloused fingers brush over the back of his hand and bites back a groan at the sensation. He sees the moment she comes back to herself, her eyes sharpening. She sucks in a deep breath and jerks her hand back, turning and walking away without another word. He can’t help but notice that her hands are trembling as she rubs her wrist.

She walks to the front of the room, claps her hands once, and dismisses class for the day. She doesn’t glance in his direction even once.

And that is Jaime’s cue. He slowly stands and looks for Sandor, and finds him standing near the drying cabinet by Brienne’s desk. The scarred man cocks his head and makes a gesture. _Are you staying?_ Sandor had stayed with Brienne after the last class. It’s Jaime’s turn now, and he nods, then looks around for Vargo Hoat.

Jaime’s lip curls in distaste as he eyes the other man. Hoat stares back with a smirk. He looks over at Brienne meaningfully, then back to Jaime.

Jaime wants so badly to take the man out, but something stops him. There is a sadistic cunning to this man, and over the past weeks since Hoat has come to Tarth, Jaime has felt it more and more. He can’t put a finger on it—it’s something in the way Hoat talks about Brienne, the way he looks at Ygritte in the therapy room, the way he lingers outside the nurses’ station when Gilly is on shift.

He’d said something to Elder Brother during one of his sessions last week, hoping the older man had sensed the same _wrongness_ about Hoat as Jaime had. Instead, Elder Brother had reminded Jaime that everyone came to Tarth in need of healing, and that Vargo was no different.

But Jaime just _knows_ Hoat won’t be satisfied until he’s hurt someone, hurt a _woman._ After his argument with Sandor, Jaime knows he’ll be asked to leave Tarth if it happens again. He can’t afford for that to happen, to leave Brienne vulnerable like that. So he stares at Hoat in silence, waiting for the other man to look away first. Hoat grins, gives a mock salute, and leaves.

Jaime sits back down, staring sightlessly at his bowl. He hasn’t felt this powerless since he woke up in Harrenhal, and he has no idea what to do.

When he looks back up, the room is empty except for Brienne. She is staring at him from her desk, chewing on her thick lower lip and looking flustered.

“Mr. Lannister—Jaime—was there anything else you needed?”

Jaime shrugs and walks over to the drying cabinet with his bowl to give himself time to think. He wonders how much he can say to her, and whether she’ll listen to his words or brush him off like Elder Brother. He weighs the pros and cons and comes to a decision.

“Hoat,” Jaime says, turning to face her as he closes the doors of the cabinet, twisting the handle to lock them in place.

Confusion wrinkles her brow. “I’m sorry?” Brienne says, glancing around the room, anywhere but at him.

He steps closer to Brienne, so that he is facing her from the other side of the desk. “Hoat,” he repeats urgently. “I can’t explain it, Brienne, but just watch yourself around him.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Jaime, I don’t think he’s as bad as you seem to think.” She doesn’t even seem to believe her own words.

He’s frustrated at her denial, and along with the upheaval from his earlier conversation with Tyrion, he snaps. “Stupid, stubborn wench,” he hisses, baring his teeth, leaning over the desk in her face.

Her back straightens, blue fire sparking in her eyes, her nostrils flaring.

Fighting and fucking—Jaime has forgotten how close the two can be, his gaze dropping to her wide, lush mouth. Before she can spit her anger at him, he is kissing her, letting his tongue slide into her mouth as she gasps in surprise. He feels the exact moment she responds, kissing him back as her fingertips brush lightly over his shaven jaw. He wishes he could touch her as well, but the desk is between them, and he is holding himself up with his only hand. He groans low in his throat in frustration.

She breaks away from him then, and they are both breathing heavily. Brienne’s face is pale as she stares at him for a long moment, then bows her head.

He straightens and stares at the nape of her neck in the silence, wanting to trace over the freckles there, wanting to kiss her again. But he knows—this won’t be ending well.

“Jaime.” Her voice is tremulous as she stares at her hands clasped on the desk before her. “Please leave.”

 _Leave._ The word is staggering. He wants to ask what she means—for the day? The week? _Forever?_ But the words are frozen on his tongue.

He staggers from the terrace and back to his room, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. He stares out the window.

The forecast is calling for rain that night and possible thunderstorms, and Jaime can see the difference in the choppy, white-crested waves, the heaviness of the air, the way the gulls sounds more plaintive than normal.

He wants to think about Brienne—about the way her lips felt against his, and the way she responded to his kiss—but there is a heavy feeling in his gut, like something terrible has yet to happen and the world is holding its breath.

He hopes— _prays—_ he’s wrong. Somehow, though, he knows he isn’t.


	2. Walk Through Fire to Save My Life

Jaime isn’t sure what wakes him—perhaps it’s the low, rumbling thunder, or the last vestiges of a nightmare. Images of Ramsay’s smile, of Brienne’s tear-stained face, are seemingly imprinted behind his eyelids. He lies in bed, digging his fingers and thumb into his gritty eyes before turning his head to stare out the window at the sheeting rain.

It takes less than half an hour for him to accept that sleep won’t be coming again anytime soon. He’s tired, but restless, jittery. All the residents have twenty-four hour access to the kitchen, so he decides to go make himself something hot to erase the chill from his skin. He painstakingly pulls on a pair of flannel pajama pants, then a thin white cotton t-shirt, and steps into his dark brown slippers

The hallways are dimly lit, as they normally are this late at night. Jaime trails his fingers along the cool, smooth stones of the wall, his slippers making a soft _shushing_ sound as he walks. His thoughts stray to Brienne, the way her mouth moved under his, the way her fingers brushed his jaw so tenderly.

He pulls himself back to the present, pondering a mug of strong, black Pentoshi tea as he steps closer to the heavy, swinging door leading to the kitchen. He hears a grunt and a clatter—is someone in there? Did they fall? _Gods,_ he hopes the kitchen isn’t being used as some clandestine meeting place. Just in case, he approaches cautiously, peeking through one of the small, round windows in the door.

What he sees in the shadowy room makes his heart freeze in his chest and bile rise up his throat.

Brienne is pressed into one corner, held between the counter and Vargo Hoat’s body. His face is buried against her long, thick neck, her head thrown back as the fingers of one hand clench in the hair at the back of his head.

For a split second, it looks like a lover’s embrace, a stolen moment, and Jaime wonders how he could have been _so wrong._

Before Jaime can collect himself, Brienne pulls back on Hoat’s hair, ripping his face from her throat, viciously biting into the other man’s ear—and Jaime is able to see the scene for what it is. He is blinded by a rage so strong it nearly steals his breath. He doesn’t think; he just acts. Jaime throws open the door with a wordless roar and rushes at Hoat, who is clutching his ear and howling.

He hears Brienne screaming behind him, but can’t understand what she’s saying, or whether she’s saying anything at all. He is nearly upon Hoat when he sees the glint of silver in the other man’s free hand—a knife. Terror seizes him for an endless moment, Ramsay’s sadistic smile floating before him. He is paralyzed by looping memories of his imprisonment, the agony of having his skin peeled away, his own high-pitched screams echoing in his ears. The lights are thrown on, bright and flickering fluorescent, and Jaime sees Brienne at the switch as he reflexively lifts his stump to shield his eyes.

Hoat does the same, and suddenly, the knife is clattering to the tile floor as Brienne knocks him down. Hoat is cunning, though, leanly muscled and almost as tall as Brienne. He rolls with the impact, landing on top of her, using his knees to pin her elbows. And he has the knife again.

“Big bitch,” Hoat snarls in her face, the long blade resting against her throat. Brienne’s face is bright red, her hands grabbing for Hoat ineffectually. “Thould’ve been grateful.” His spittle drips in her face, blood sliding down his neck from his bitten ear. “Let’th thee how _you_ like it, cunt.”

Jaime sees it as though in slow motion, Hoat’s blade moving towards her ear. His gaunt face is determined, a crazed look in his eyes. The other man isn’t bluffing, and Jaime knows he has to act quickly. He grabs the closest thing he can find—a glass pitcher—and slams it into Hoat’s temple. The other man slumps over Brienne instantly, limp as a rag doll. Jaime can hear Brienne panting, short, sharp bursts of air, struggling under the weight of the body on top of her. He falls to his knees and rolls Hoat off of her. As soon as she’s free, she scrabbles backwards on her hands and feet, Jaime doing his best to follow with only one hand to support himself.

“Brienne,” he says softly. She is staring at Hoat’s prone form, unable or unwilling to tear her gaze away. Tears are running down her broad, freckled cheeks, though she doesn’t make a sound.

Jaime can’t stop running his eyes over her, taking in her injuries. There’s blood in her hair, on her face, and her shirt, which is ripped from collar to sternum. He isn’t sure whether the blood is hers or Hoat’s, or a combination of the two. Two rows of teeth marks are clear on the side of her neck, the skin broken and bruising. Her torn shirt gapes to show three long, pulpy-looking scratches running over her collarbone, ending just above the swell of one partially exposed breast.

And she refuses to look at him, no matter how many times he says her name, her blue eyes staring at nothing.

He is nearly frantic by the time he finds the intercom and jabs the button for the security office, telling the night guard, Gendry, to bring the doctor, too.

 _Brienne. Brienne. Brienne._ She sits and stares in silence as he says her name over and over, his fingers gripping her knee, trying to reach her. Gendry comes running in, followed shortly by Sam, huffing and pink-faced as he wheels in a gurney, still wearing his pajamas. There is a flurry of activity as the two men load Hoat’s unconscious form onto the gurney. Sam tries to lead Brienne off, but she is still as a statue, refusing to be moved. She watches Gendry pull out a pair of handcuffs, one side going around Hoat’s wrist, the other around the railing of the gurney. It is only then that Sam is able to pull her from the kitchen, and he distractedly tells Jaime he’ll need to make a statement in the morning.

Jaime watches her leave, the door swinging shut behind her without another word. After a few long moments making sure that Hoat is still unconscious and Gendry has everything under control, Jaime heads back to his room, his mind whirling.

He knows sleep won’t be coming again tonight.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for anger to find him as he broods in the dark and quiet, his room occasionally lit by bright flashes of lightning. He is furious at Hoat, for daring to put even a finger on Brienne. He is angry at Elder Brother, and even Brienne, for not listening to his warnings, and angry with Sandor, who hadn’t spoken up at all, even though he’d had the same sense about Hoat as Jaime had. And he is livid with himself for not stopping Hoat sooner, for freezing at the sight of that knife, for not knowing she needed him. The clock tells him it’s been almost two hours since he returned to his room. He cannot sit here another minute.

Jaime paces the hallways, unable to stop thinking about what could have happened tonight. He _needs_ to see her, his fingers trembling with how badly he needs it. He needs to touch her and shake her and kiss her and curse her.

He passes the exam room, the door halfway open, the room dark. He feels the knot in his chest loosen somewhat, knowing she must not be too injured. He passes the terrace, looking through the glass panes of the French doors at the rain sheeting down onto the stone floor, but the small space is empty. He growls low in his throat, continuing his search, ignoring the small, rational corner of his brain that tries to tell him she must be sleeping, leave her be, find her in the morning.

It’s a curious feeling, when he finally finds her. He walks down the hallway where Elder Brother’s office is, anticipation sitting heavy in his gut, the hairs on his forearms standing straight up. All the fury he felt just moments ago has been washed away. He sees the partially open door only a few yards past Elder Brother’s office, a yellow wedge of light spilling into the hallway, and he just _knows—_ this is Brienne’s office.

Jaime steps closer to the light, letting his shoes scuff and squeak against the floor so she can hear his approach. He stands in the doorway, and he finally sees her, her face milk-pale and splotchy red. Her eyes are like bright blue beacons, meeting his gaze steadily, though her bottom lip quivers just slightly. He drinks her in, noticing that her hair is clean now, her neck and clavicle bandaged in pristine gauze. She is wearing a black men’s undershirt, the scooped neck low enough not to rub against her bandages. Her shoulders are broad and muscled, spattered with more of the freckles he’s grown so fond of.

“Can I help you, Jaime?”

He is amazed at how calm she sounds, only the stiff way she holds herself giving away any sign of discomfort. He steps into the room and closes the door. “Why aren’t you in bed?” He is momentarily surprised at how gravelly his voice sounds. “Or in the medical wing?”

She gapes at him for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “I’m not tired. Sam patched me up and said I could leave. I need to make out my statement for tonight.” She bends her head over a notepad, clearly intent on ignoring him as she begins scribbling away.

“Brienne,” he says quietly. She doesn’t look at him, but she stops writing. _“Brienne.”_

She finally looks up, a sheen of tears in her astonishing eyes, but her voice is steady. “You can leave, now.”

It isn’t a suggestion, but Jaime refuses to go. “Come here,” he beckons with both arms. He promises himself he will leave if she asks again, but he still can’t fight the images in his head of what could have happened to her, can’t fight the desperate _need_ to feel her flesh against his fingers.

She is battling with herself, he can see, wondering whether she should come to him. After several long minutes, she rises from her chair, coming to stand mere inches in front of him. She is chewing on her lower lip, unwilling to meet his gaze. He wants so badly to kiss her again, like he did on the terrace that afternoon, and run his tongue along that lower lip—

Instead, he wraps his arms around her thick waist, the ribbed fabric of her top rubbing against his stump as he pulls her closer. For a moment, it’s like hugging a board, but then she relaxes a fraction, and then another, until her chin is resting on his shoulder. Her breaths brush against his ear, her small, soft breasts pressing into his chest with every slow breath she takes. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezed shut as he forcefully tells his cock not to get any ideas.

“Thank you,” Brienne breathes out after several long moments, her voice husky in his ear—and no, his cock is _definitely_ starting to get ideas, which is his cue to leave.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, giving her one last small squeeze before she lets go.

His mistake, he thinks later, was opening his eyes when she was still so close. He can’t look away from her wide, red lips, her suddenly flushed face, her pale-lashed eyes, so vividly blue. His mind is a jumble of memories of her, fantasies he’s had about her, and wrapped all around it, one burning thought— _I could’ve lost her today._

He _has_ to kiss her again. He leans in, waiting for permission, and then her lips are on his, just as suddenly as on the terrace earlier. He palms the side of her face, his fingers pushing into the hair behind her ear, holding her at the perfect angle. Her fingers are fisted in his own hair, her tongue sliding artlessly against his as she pushes him back against her office door.

He is surrounded by Brienne, her smell, her taste, her smooth skin.

He is lost. He is found.


	3. I May Snap (I Move Fast)

Jaime almost can’t believe this is real. Brienne is kissing him, her fingers in his hair, her body flush against his. His fingers have crept under the edge of her shirt, following the barely-there curve of her waist, trailing up her ribcage, then higher.

She isn’t wearing a bra.

His knuckles brush the soft underside of her breast. Brienne responds with a shuddering moan as he scrapes his thumb over a tight nipple, then pinches. Her tongue is hot, slick, eager in his mouth as she presses him harder against the wall.

He doesn’t want to, but Jaime can’t help comparing her to Cersei, the only other woman he’s ever held. Brienne is dizzying, arousing, in her differences. Her lips are wider, fuller, her kisses less experienced. The strength of her body is thrilling as she pushes against him, holding him in place. She is _noisy,_ moans and squeaks and panting breaths. After decades of quiet, desperate, stolen moments, her guileless responses only stoke his arousal further.

He can’t explain it—he can’t get close enough—he wants to _devour_ her. He wraps his right arm around her lower back, wedges one knee between her legs, and pulls her even closer. His cock is hard and aching, pressed against her thigh. He lets his hand fall from her breast to her hip, digging his fingers into the firm muscle there as they continue kissing.

It occurs to him that _this—_ this meeting of flesh, this mutual wanting—is something he’s missed, craved without realizing it, needed like air. He scrabbles with the waistband of her sweatpants, working his fingers under the elastic of her underwear. His palm slides over trim, crisp hair and soft, warm flesh, the tip of one finger sliding between her slick folds.

Jaime pauses then, suddenly, acutely aware of how clumsy his remaining hand is. He wants, _so badly,_ to make her feel good, to feel the ripple of her orgasm around his cock or his fingers, against his tongue. But _gods,_ it’s difficult enough getting himself off, _pathetic, useless—_

It comes as a shock when she pulls away from him suddenly, and he is cold without her warmth. He sags against the door at his back, staring at her in shock.

She is _wrecked,_ swollen lips and messy hair, her clothing skewed, the hard peaks of her breasts straining against the knit fabric of her top.

“What are you _doing?”_ she asks, hands fisting at her sides, a scowl darkening her face. She looks angry, hurt, betrayed. He has no idea what he’s done.

“What?”

She scrubs her fingers through her hair, agitation clear in her every move. “I don’t know why you’re toying with me, but you picked just about the worst day possible.” Her voice is tight, and it almost sounds like she’s choking on the words.

He can’t believe this— _toying_ with her? “This isn't a _game_ _,_ Brienne.”

She flinches at the sound of her name. “I don’t know what you’re _doing,”_ she whispers roughly, palming her face, rubbing at her eyes.

“I’d think that was fairly obvious, wench,” he says, a hint of anger in his voice as he gestures crudely at his cock.

Brienne’s hand falls, her gaze dropping to his obvious erection. Her face flames red as she swiftly brings her eyes back up, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

He hopes this will be the end of…whatever the issue is. There are other things he’d much rather be doing. Jaime takes half a step forward, ready to get back to where they left off, but she holds up a hand, stopping him.

“I’m not interested in being some kind of c-conquest,” Brienne stutters out.

 _“Conquest?”_ He half-laughs in disbelief. “Do you think I try to fuck every woman who crosses my path?”

Her jaw clenches. “Then _what?”_ she spits out, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “It’s been a while? You’re bored?”

With a supreme effort, he tamps down his rage. How can she not understand how he feels? “Are you really that stupid?”

“No,” she grinds out, face a dark, ugly red. “I’m _not_ that stupid, which is why I know exactly what to expect from men like you.”

Jaime scoffs. “There _are_ no men like me, wench. Only me.” He smiles, hard and sharp as broken glass. “There’s only ever been one woman, and that’s been over and done with since my deployment almost three years ago. So yes, it’s been a while.” He hesitates. “It was my sister, in fact.”

Brienne looks shocked. He can’t say that he blames her.

“It was sick, and it was wrong, and it’s over. It's _been_ over." He pauses. She is watching him carefully, her gaze steady. “But I can assure you, Brienne, I am far from bored.” He raises his eyebrows, biting into a smile, running his eyes over her messy hair, her flushed neck, lingering on her breasts.

“Why me?” Brienne asks, and she sounds almost like a little girl, quiet and unsure, so at odds with her physical appearance. “I’m not…beautiful.”

“You’re not, you're nothing like her,” Jaime says quickly, forcefully. “You’re not beautiful, you’re _better.”_

She shakes her head in mute denial, her lower lip jutting stubbornly.

He pauses, a dozen different replies passing over his tongue, from biting to sweet. Finally he shrugs. “I dream of you,” he says, not bothering to hide the raw edge to his voice.

He isn’t sure who moves first after that, but she is back in his arms, their mouths fused. They are anything but gentle as he nips at her lower lip, palming the curve of her ass. He spins her around, pressing her back against the door. Her groans and sighs spill into the air between them, his cock rubs against her hip.

He groans low in his throat, that desperate feeling from earlier growing stronger and stronger in his gut. He wants, needs, _has_ to have her. He is frantic to feel her warm skin against his, her wet cunt wrapped around him.

He rips his mouth away from hers as his fingers find her nipple, pinching roughly, then pulling lightly as she pants and sighs and arches her back, her fingers fisting in his hair once more. He ducks his head to scrape his teeth over her pulse, sucking a mark there as he grinds himself against her.

“Gods— _Jaime—”_ she whimpers, pulling on his hair sharply, guiding him lower.

He is only too happy to comply, teeth closing carefully around her neglected nipple through the thin black fabric of her top. He isn’t nearly close enough, though, and he pulls away long enough to pull the shirt over her head. She is trying to bring his head back to where he’d been, but he refuses, taking in all her exposed skin. She has freckles _everywhere._

“I dream about you, about this,” he whispers roughly, dragging his palm from her collar bones to her navel, the contrast of his darker tanned skin against her pale, pale flesh arousing, as he leaves goosebumps in his wake. He can’t stop staring at her tits, small and high and freckled, with nipples the same dark pink of her lips. He wonders whether her cunt will be the same hue, and swallows hard.

“Jaime,” she says, high and needy, and his eyes shoot to hers. She looks at him beseechingly, her eyes dark and shining, and she pushes on his shoulders once more.

He grins—oh yes, it didn’t take long to figure out how sensitive her breasts are—and ducks his head once more, fingers playing with one nipple, his tongue curling around the other. Her muffled shriek is like music to his ears, her honest responses running straight to his cock. He releases her with a soft _pop,_ and lets his hand drop to her sweatpants, his stump falling to her other hip. It hits him with a jolt, that the wide, jagged lines of pink scar tissue don’t bother her, that she hasn’t flinched away from his lack of a hand. He curls his fingers into the front of her waistband, grabbing her underwear as well, and yanks them down, down, down her unbelievably long legs, crouching at her feet.

His head is level with her cunt, and he can _smell_ her, practically taste her on his tongue as he stares at her. Her hands flutter nearby, as though she is thinking about covering herself, but he ignores them. _Gods,_ he hasn’t done this in ages, hadn’t thought to want such a thing after Cersei’s final rejection. But he _wants—_ wants to taste her, wants to make her come, wants the satisfaction of knowing he made her feel good. He _wants—everything._ He brushes his fingers along the seam of her—and _gods_ is she wet, coating his fingers, slick and warm. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts one of her legs to rest on his shoulder.

“Jaime—” she says, but cuts off on another one of those shrieks as he uses his thumb to part her folds—just as pink as he’d hoped—and licks her from bottom to top. She tastes musky, slightly tangy, and he hums as he laps at her, flicks her clit with his tongue. She is biting her hand, muffling her moans—but he loves all her noises, wants to _hear_ her. He runs his fingers between her folds once more as his tongue continues its assault, running along the wet flesh there. He slips one finger inside her, then works another one in as well, sliding them in and out in a slow, torturous rhythm as he sucks on her lightly. She is panting and writhing against the door, against his hand, against his tongue, until finally she comes with a long, low groan. He can feel her flutter around his fingers, twitch against his tongue. Her fingers are fisted painfully tightly in his hair.

After a moment he stands, watching as she opens her eyes slowly, staring at him muzzily, still slumped against the door.

“Please,” he says quietly, ready to beg if he has to—he has never wanted anything more.

Brienne nods, looking around before biting her lip, shuffling towards her desk, pulling him with her. She perches on the edge of the wooden surface, legs spread as she pulls him close—and it’s then that he remembers, he’s still fully clothed. He goes to pull his white t-shirt over his head when Brienne stills him. Her fingers brush against his sides as she curls them in the edges of his shirt, gently pulling it over his head. She grabs his stump then, running her fingers over his forearm, tracing the wide, jagged scars, before pressing her lips there. He is watching her, wide-eyed, barely breathing. She lets his arm go then, pushing his pajama pants down to pool around his ankles, his cock springing free.

Brienne’s face is flaming red as she looks at him, her long fingers wrapping around him gently—and his eyes nearly cross at the sensation. Someone whimpers. It takes Jaime a moment to realize it’s him. He can’t look away from the sight of her hand on his cock, the tip so near where he wants to be.

And then she tugs gently, one heel hooking into the back of his knee, pulling him yet closer.

He slides inside her, _wet_ and _warm_ and wrapped so tightly around him. She locks her ankles behind his back as he begins to thrust into her, deep as he can go, lost in the feeling of her. She leans back on her hands, using the extra leverage to meet him halfway. Her long, lean torso is stretched out before him, her breasts jutting deliciously.

 _“Oh,”_ she moans after a particularly deep stroke, and he gasps in response as her heels dig into his back.

He wants desperately to make this last, but he knows—it’s been too long for him, and he’s wanted her so badly—this will be over soon. He wants her to come again, this time on his cock. He steadies himself on his shortened forearm, reaching between their bodies, gently pinching her clit between thumb and forefinger. It is nowhere near as awkward as he’d feared. He can feel her tighten around him, her moans turning high and breathy, and then she is coming hard, her back arching as she squeezes him, and his thrusts turn short and jerky, and he is coming, coming, _coming, gods._

She pulls him close as they come down, his sweat-slick chest pressed to hers, listening to the rhythm of her heart slow. He is content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a bit late. I have a sick child and laptop issues. Thanks for your patience! :)


	4. Everything I Can

Jaime wakes gradually, in an unfamiliar place. He isn’t in his bed, he realizes. He’s lying on a couch, a blanket thrown over him. And everything comes rushing back. He opens his eyes to see Brienne standing in the middle of her office. Her back is to him as she balances on one leg, stepping into her sweatpants. The pink light of the sunrise filters through the window, limning her flesh, highlighting the defined muscles in her broad, bare shoulders and back. She is glorious and imposing, and Jaime can’t help thinking that she is the Warrior made flesh. He can’t help thinking that, in this light, she could almost be a beauty.

She bends over and picks up her top. He must make a noise of some sort, because she whirls around. The black fabric is clutched to her chest, disappointingly obscuring her breasts. Her eyes are wide, a little panicked.

“You weren’t leaving, were you, wench?” he asks. He means it to sound teasing—he doesn’t _really_ think she was going to leave—but it comes out sounding almost plaintive. Too many years of leaving in the middle of the night, he supposes. Too many years of never enough time.

She shakes her head. “I-I wouldn’t, no,” she stutters, licking her lips nervously. “But uh, I just—” She releases a heavy sigh, pulling her shirt on quickly, showing just a glimpse of her dark pink nipples. Her head pops through the collar, a cowlick bouncing on the crown of her head.

She is _adorable._ She is _so fucking sexy._

He is so _gone._

Jaime sits up, the blankets pooling in his lap. Her eyes trail down his chest as her face turns bright red, and he can’t help but grin.

“I want to talk about…this,” she blurts out, gesturing in the air between them. His heart freezes in his chest. She must see the look on his face, though, and she hurries to add, “Not talk like _that._ I don’t _regret_ this. But I just—” she bites her lip and hesitates. “I need to know where you see this going.”

 _Where you see this going._ He wonders what her response would be if he said, _Fucking all night and sleeping in on lazy Sundays. Maiden cloaks and fighting over baby names._ He wants to laugh at himself, all or nothing, always rushing in too quickly. Before he can formulate a response, though, she is speaking again.

“I’m not a-assuming you want something long-term,” she says in a rush. “Unless you want something long-term.” Her face is a dark red by this point, and she’s having difficulty maintaining eye contact. She covers her face with her hands and takes a deep breath. “Y-you said this wasn’t—I wasn’t—but if you’ve changed your mind….” She trails off, letting her hands drop.

“And this is...Jaime, I could be asked to leave if we don’t do this the right way.” She shakes her head. “I’ve spent the past six years building the art therapy program here,” she says softly, her tone pleading with him to understand.

And he does understand. _Everything_ in him rails against it, but he understands what she is trying to say. “I’ll go back to my room without a fuss,” he sighs, and she finally meets his gaze for more than a split second. Her gratitude is plain. _It’s just temporary,_ he reminds himself. _It’s not hiding forever._

He leans over and grabs his pajama pants, which are lying in a heap nearby. He gets his feet in first, then pulls them up to his knees, and finally stands, tugging the waistband into place as the blanket falls to the ground. Brienne is so close, and she can’t _quite_ hide her awkwardness as she shifts from foot to foot, keeping her face turned to the side until he’s covered once more. He takes a step closer, close enough that their chests brush. He looks up at her through his eyelashes, her flushed face and dilating pupils, and bites into a grin. “Long-term, wench, definitely,” Jaime says, leering at her playfully. “But short-term, I need a kiss before I go,” he murmurs.

She is bright red once more, eyes darting around, licking her lower lip. He is reminded once more of how young she is, remembers her inexperience from the night before, and takes pity on her. He runs his fingers along her jaw, and he can’t help but notice how she stills under his touch, her lips parting slightly. He tips her face down just a bit, meeting her mouth with his own.

Jaime decides then that he could happily die kissing Brienne. She is slow and methodical in this, as she is in so many other ways. He opens his eyes for a moment as they kiss, memorizing the pale fans of her eyelashes lying against her broad cheeks and the myriad freckles dotting her eyelids. Her lips are plush against his, and her breath hitches as he gently sucks on her lower lip.

He hears the short knock on Brienne’s office door, but doesn’t really register it until the door opens, he and Brienne practically jumping away from each other.

“Brienne, Hoat’s made a statement, and—” Sam walks through the door almost absently, though he cuts off mid-sentence as he looks from Brienne to Jaime and back again. His round face flushes pink under his short brown beard.

Jaime looks down at himself—shirtless, shoeless, half an erection. He looks at Brienne then, trying to see what Sam sees—hair like a bird’s nest, swollen lips, a small, dark mark on the side of her neck not covered by bandages. Then there’s her messy desk, the blanket on the floor by the couch, and the fact that it _still_ smells like sex, even after the time that’s passed.

“Oh _gods,”_ the doctor breathes. He palms his face, shaking his head back and forth.

Brienne is standing frozen in shock, her face and neck splotchy red, her jaw working like a cow chewing its cud.

Jaime has a feeling things have just gotten a lot more complicated.

* * *

The moment Jaime sees Catelyn Stark, sitting at a table in a small meeting room next to Elder Brother’s office, he recognizes her. The Starks are an old family, even if they are not as moneyed as the Lannisters, and move in many of the same circles.

She eyes him with well-concealed disdain, but Jaime sees it anyway. The two families have no love for each other, and he has always been good at reading veiled emotions.

“Mr. Lannister,” she greets him, smiling thinly. She is momentarily, satisfyingly flustered when she offers her hand to shake, only for Jaime to raise his stump and wave it at her with a charming smile. She regains her composure quickly, taking a seat and gesturing for him to do the same.

It rankles, the unspoken air of authority she feels she has over him, but Jaime reminds himself what is at stake here. Jaime had been quickly reminded of Hoat’s cunning that morning. Sam had fixed him with what Jaime could only assume was supposed to be a severe look. “I don’t care what this is. I don’t care how long it’s been going on. The less I know, the better. I know he’s lying, we all do, but that won’t stop him from ruining Brienne’s reputation if he gets the chance.”

Hoat had awoken early and demanded an attorney, spinning a story about Jaime attacking him out of sheer jealousy for getting too close to Brienne during class. He’d been sure to make comments about a ‘secret relationship’ between Jaime and Brienne, as well, damaging any credibility they might have had.

Catelyn Stark is investigating on behalf of the Stormlands Hospital Group, which Evenfall is affiliated with. Hoat’s story is ridiculous, ludicrous even, but Catelyn takes notes on a laptop, asking question after question. _What is your version of events? Who did you fight with? Did Mr. Hoat actually provoke you?_ Absurdly, she seems to be taking Hoat’s side as fact.

“What is the nature of your relationship with Miss Tarth?” Catelyn asks, the question he’s been dreading since this interview started.

“Purely professional,” Jaime replies, more easily than he feels, “until after Hoat was arrested.”

Catelyn fixes him with a hard stare. “Really? You're saying it started just last night?” She sounds incredulous.

Well. He might say that _something_ started the day he woke up to Brienne’s blue eyes, but that doesn’t mean they’ve been carrying on a secret relationship. “Sometimes, in times of stress, people are just drawn to each other,” he offers.

Catelyn makes a _hmph_ sound. She doesn’t like him, and she doesn’t believe him, doesn’t _want_ to believe him.

There are a few more questions after that, mostly variations of ones she’s already asked. Trying to trip him up, Jaime assumes, but he answers with ease, much to her growing irritation. Finally, she thanks him for his time and gestures towards the door without another word.

When he steps into the hallway and closes the door, he isn’t expecting to see Brienne. But there she is, her arms crossed over her chest, shifting from foot to foot. She is wearing a sleeveless blue top, remarkably untouched by bits of paint. The bandages are gone from her neck and collar bone, her injuries stark against her pale skin. Mottled blue and green bruises surround the tiny scabs from where Hoat bit her neck, and the gouges running over her clavicle have scabbed over as well. A small, rational corner of his mind tells him it’s good that Catelyn will see Brienne’s injuries, at least. The larger part of him rages, though, and his fist clenches as he remembers the way it felt to knock that bastard out. He wishes he could find Hoat and do it all over again.

Brienne smiles at him wanly. “My turn?” she asks, waving a hand at the door behind him.

“I think so,” he agrees, returning her smile with one of his own. “And I think you should tell her the truth about us. Careful, though—I’m pretty sure she has a heart of stone.”

Brienne snorts at that, though quietly, her smile turning brighter, and Jaime feels a small, answering glow in his chest. He looks both ways and sees the hallway is empty. He takes a step closer. He wants to pull her into his arms, kiss her and hold her, but he _can’t._ It’s unbelievably frustrating.

“I miss you,” he murmurs, keeping his hand in his pocket so he doesn’t touch her.

Her face is flushed that now-familiar shade of red as she nibbles on her chapped lower lip, her gaze darting about. “Me, too,” she finally says, swallowing hard.

He grins at that, ridiculously pleased. He is about to say something witty—and most likely risqué—when the door opens behind him. He turns to see Catelyn standing there, looking between Brienne and himself with a sour expression.

“Come in, Miss Tarth.”

Brienne squares her shoulders and follows the older woman into the room, the door closing firmly shut behind her.

He knows he shouldn’t, knows it might look _too unprofessional,_ but he decides to wait in the hallway. Maybe he will say he wanted to talk to Catelyn again, maybe…he will think of something. But he cannot leave.

He’s been sitting near the door for maybe fifteen minutes, listening to the muffled tones of their conversation, when suddenly both women are much louder. He wonders whether he should interrupt, whether it will create more problems than it solves. Elder Brother takes the decision out of his hands when he leaves his office, ignoring Jaime completely as he knocks once, twice on the door, then lets himself in.

Jaime very clearly hears Brienne cry, “He is not the man he once was!”, Catelyn quickly hissing out, “He goes, or you can go.” Elder Brother is trying to calm them both, but Jaime knows what he must do. He doesn’t think, he just enters the office. All three turn to glare at him.

“I’ll go,” he says, calm as he can.

“Jaime,” Brienne says, “you _can’t._ You’ve been making so much progress!”

He meets Brienne’s gaze, sees how upset she is, but he _knows_ this is the right decision. “I have,” he agrees, ignoring the other two people in the room, focusing solely on her. “I can continue that in King’s Landing, though.” He pauses. “You belong here.”

He leaves without another word and goes straight to his room. He calls Tyrion, who tells him a Lannister Inc. employee will be there in less than two hours. He makes quick work of packing up his few belongings, more deft with just one hand than he ever thought he’d be. With a singlemindedness he learned in the military, he tries not to think, not to feel, just concentrate on what he needs to do: pack his things, wait for the driver, go home. _Not home,_ he corrects himself, _King’s Landing._ He’s never felt more at home, more comfortable, than he has on Tarth.

His cellphone rings. The driver, Peck, is here. Jaime slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, ready to leave his bedroom for the last time.

He doesn’t see Brienne on his way to the front entrance, where Peck is waiting. He doesn’t see her in the crowds milling on the dock as he and Peck board the ferry.

He thanks and curses the gods for this small mercy, this small torture, as Tarth fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me, I said there'd be a happy-for-them ending! The series isn't over yet.
> 
> Look, it's still Wednesday SOMEWHERE in my country. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Join me as we embark on the homestretch of the Art Therapy series. Looks like this will be another two or three chapters, and should update weekly.
> 
> A million thank yous to ikkiM for your beta work!
> 
> And thank you to my readers and reviewers. :)))


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